


On the Turn Of the Moment

by JustJasper



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety, Blindfolds, Gentleness, Hand Jobs, M/M, Underwear Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:43:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9340304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/pseuds/JustJasper
Summary: Three months ago, there'd have been a thousand things he'd let Dorian do to him before being blindfolded.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I made [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8811910) and then I couldn't leave the idea of blindfolded Bull alone. With [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yer0_JJ-8QQ) on repeat.
> 
> With thanks to [Gobetti](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gobetti) for betaing!

**“Night is a time of rigor, but also of mercy. There are truths which one can see only when it’s dark.” - Isaac Bashevis Singer**

“No blindfolds,” the Bull had said once. Early, when they were laying the ground rules for what would become regular fucking. “Like to see what I'm doing.”

Now, the Bull kneels on a pillow with his hands on his lap, and Dorian slips a length of soft fabric over his good eye and the place where the other used to be.

His world narrows in the sudden dark, to Dorian's fingers lingering at the base of his skull. Dorian withdraws and the Bull adjusts – breathes in through his nose, smells Dorian at a few paces, soap and sweat. Hears the floorboard give a little under his footing as he straightens.

“You're sure?” Dorian says.

Three months ago, there'd have been a thousand things he'd let Dorian do to him before being blindfolded. Now—

“Yeah.”

Taking his good eye out of play sets him on edge immediately, but he knew it would even when he told Dorian he should blindfold him sometime. A casual mention, as if it had no significance at all, pretending they didn't both know that was a bunch of crap.

“I'll begin, then.”

He touches the Bull's jaw, frames the angle with his hand, solid, soft fingers and a leather covered palm, and he misses his sight immediately, acutely. The touch is tender, and the look Dorian has when he's tender is something else.

Dorian's thumb brushes the Bull's lip, lingering, promising. The Bull's body responds; he takes a deep breath in through his nose, his cock twitches between his legs, his lips part to the touch.

Dorian tips the Bull's face upwards, and only context prepares the Bull for the kiss, the familiar softness of Dorian's mouth, the brush of his moustache, the wet slide of his tongue against the Bull's lips. The Bull hums, opens his mouth to him, and Dorian responds.

Their kisses usually have diplomacy, a little give, a little take, but tonight Dorian leads, steals the Bull's breath away with it. When he pulls away, the Bull lets loose a little grunt of dissatisfaction.

“Fret not,” Dorian murmurs, straightens and releases the Bull. He feels a little lost. “I intend to keep kissing you, though I’ve some other things in mind too.”

The familiar sound of buckles, ridiculous amounts of leather straps on Dorian's favoured outfit. There's actually two of them, and this is the one that's three buckles easier to remove. He listens as Dorian does, slowly. He can't know whether Dorian is watching him, but he imagines he is, imagines the desire in him as he reveals every inch of himself.

Not being able to know what's going on sets an ache low in his belly, even as between his legs, his cock throbs and stirs.

“What are you thinking, hmm?”

So he was watching – his cock twitches at that, and he shifts a little, spreads his fingers over his thighs instead of reaching for himself. Wait.

“Wondering what colour your underthings are today.”

Dorian laughs as the bulk of his outfit hits the floor with a dull thud.

“Why don't you take a guess?”

“Have I seen them before, or am I guessing _blind_?”

Dorian titters, and huffs to cover it. He likes to pretend he isn't amused by the Bull's pun work.

“You've seen them before. You've seen almost all of my drawers by now.”

“Almost all?”

“A man must have some mystery.”

The Bull's whole body stills with attention as he hears Dorian step closer. How close is he now? A few feet only. He can still smell him – clearer now, with nothing but his underthings on. There's no rustle of fabric, but Dorian sighs softly, and the Bull thinks he's probably stroking himself through the mystery underthings.

“Are they the red ones?”

“No.”

“Are you going to stand there and touch yourself until I guess?”

“Perhaps.”

“Black. Classy.”

“No.” He sighs more deliberately now, and the Bull wonders if he's fully hard, if he's cupping himself through the fabric, if there's a damp spot yet. Shit, he wants to _see_ him.

“Can't be those silky white ones, I've still got them.”

“That's because you're a filthy pervert.”

“Hey, you never asked for them back.”

“Can't imagine they're in any state to wear. How many times have you wanked your cock with them?”

“How many times have you imagined me doing that?”

Said underthings have been folded neatly into a salvaged chest of drawers ever since the Bull woke up to them on his floor, the morning after the first night they fucked.

Dorian closes the distance between them again, swoops in to kiss the Bull – no contact but a hand at his horn and where their mouths meet, but the heat of him makes the Bull sigh into the kiss. The Bull reaches for Dorian, finds his calf and wraps a hand around it. Dorian lets him, even as he draws away from the kiss.

“You mean to say you haven't? If you guess, perhaps...”

“Blue,” he says, when Dorian slides his lips along his jaw.

Dorian extracts his leg and moves away completely, barely a pace from the footfalls, but it knocks Bull sideways a little. It's weird, not being able to see Dorian when they do this. He's teasing, and the Bull is off balance, and he never thought something this simple would really do much for him.

“Purple?”

Dorian is touching himself again, he can hear the shudder of breath, hear the slide of his hand over the fabric.

“Honestly, are you trying?”

Dorian's deadpan makes the Bull shift nervously. Without his face, without the full picture of things, tone is harder. When he went to re-education the room they kept him in for cleansing was dark, they'd rely on—

No. Dorian wants to be here, Dorian is only teasing, he knows this, he knows, and yet there's the familiar buzz of panic, an unease in his bones that this is to remake him—

“Shit, Dorian. Blue. I said that. Pink. That black pair with the gold trim. The leather thing?”

Dorian can see him, see whatever shivers through him as his mind tilts sideways towards panic. He finds him in the dark again, puts a hand against his face. Gentle, on the turn of the moment. Voice and touch a match, some sense for the Bull to grasp even without sight.

“Bull, they're the red ones. Only you spoilt my game guessing right away. Are you alright?”

The Bull swallows.

“Sorry, I'm good.”

“Are you? We can stop if you don't like this.”

He could stop now – maybe he should. This is not something he was prepared for, his reaction, but it's not unpleasant so much as unnerving. When Dorian kisses him, when Dorian's close, the darkness doesn't feel like it's something to escape.

“No, I'm good.”

Dorian shuffles, though his hand stays holding firmly to the back of the Bull's neck – one foot, then the other, a hard footfall, and then eases close to him again. He kisses him, holds his face in his hands, the softness of skin and satin. Dorian's underthings, he realises, wrapped around one hand as he kisses him.

He kneels beside the Bull, presses himself close and kisses him again. Dorian's body against his is familiar, but strange in the darkness. His other senses focus to sort his surroundings; the feel of Dorian against him, the weight of his body, the smell of him, the sound he makes as he settles his body against the Bull's.

“I'm here, Bull. Listen to me.”

Dorian wraps his fist around the Bull's cock, the slip of satin with it.

“Feel me.”

The fabric's smooth and cool against him, makes him hiss when Dorian swipes over the head of his cock, where it's already damp. He groans, and Dorian responds, kisses him as he strokes the Bull steadily.

“That's it, Bull. Just feel.”

With Dorian close, he feels less like he's out of his depth. Even though he can't see him, he can feel his body straddling one thigh, can hear his little pleasured sounds, smell the sweat and soap and a touch of sweet shampoo, taste him on his mouth, as if he's all the world has left for him. Dorian's hand, twisting firmly, strong fingers behind the soft satin, thumb pressed against the sensitive glans.

“Relax for me. I've got you.”

It's okay. Dorian has him.

 

He kisses along the Bull's shoulder, over the jumping pulse of his neck, his jaw, and the Bull focuses on Dorian's hand wrapped around him, on his lips, on the warm skin of his thigh under the Bull's hand.

“You'll have to keep this pair after I've done with you. You'll be starting a collection,” Dorian says.

The Bull hums, leans into Dorian's gentle voice. It's a good voice, but he'd never thought it was a comfort until he's relying on it.

“Pity they won't fit you, but there's not nearly enough material to contain your ridiculous cock.”

“Hey, you like it.”

“Oh, I do.”

He twists his hand for emphasis, and the Bull thrusts his hips into the motion. His leg is starting to ache faintly from kneeling, but Dorian's hands – two now, as he shifts so he can grab at the Bull's balls with the other – are the best he's ever had, no competition. Dorian handles him like his staff, like an art, and every stroke of the satin under his hand makes the Bull's hips jump forward into the tight ring of his fist.

When he wants to kiss, Dorian does, open-mouthed and leading, letting the Bull share shuddering breaths with him. Dorian moans, presses himself against the Bull's thigh as they share as much space in the dark as they can. Takes his hand from worrying his balls to hold the Bull's neck, to bring their foreheads to rest against each other.

“Shit, Dorian.”

Dorian doesn't slow, doesn't stop, only works his hand steadily and murmurs into the darkess.

“That's it Bull.”

The Bull comes with a gasp and a groan, hips flinching into Dorian's grasp, damp satin and strong fingers that squeeze and twist him through it, each pulse against the slippery fabric.

“Fuck,” he whispers. Moans, as his orgasm keeps thrumming through him. “Fuck, Dorian.”

Dorian kisses him, his mouth, his jaw, as he slows his hand, strokes until the Bull is only panting, other hand already working at the tie to the blindfold.

“There we go.”

He pulls the fabric away, and the Bull narrows his eyes against the dim candlelight of the room. Dorian is fucking beautiful, flushed and looking so intently at him, as he lifts the Bull's face in his hands.

“You alright, Bull?”

“Yeah. I'm good. That was – yeah.”

Dorian hums and kisses beside his mouth, holds his face while he adjusts to seeing again.

“Was that alright, Bull? For a while there, I was worried.”

“I'm okay. Not really done that before. Weird.”

Dorian doesn't press, though he knows there's more, doesn't hide the significance of his gaze. He's a sweet guy.

“Let's get you off the floor, I'll not be responsible for breaking you.”

The Bull nods, and Dorian releases his face after a last kiss. The Bull scoops up the discarded underthings as he stands, groaning as his leg throbs and his ankle clicks loudly.

“Hey, you said I could keep these?”

He can't hide his smirk as the Bull studies the mess they made of the slip of red satin.

“You're disgusting,” Dorian says without heat, as he palms his cock.

**“We are at our most powerful the moment we no longer need to be powerful.” - Eric Micha'el Leventhal**


End file.
